


No Right Way

by iolana5050



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Animals, Bucky Barnes's Trigger Words, Canon Compliant, Character Study, Cooking, Fluff, Gen, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Non-Chronological, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Pre-Avengers: Infinity War Part 1 (Movie), Recovery, Wakanda (Marvel), World War II
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-23
Updated: 2018-09-23
Packaged: 2019-07-16 00:48:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,301
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16074863
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/iolana5050/pseuds/iolana5050
Summary: Longing, rusted, seventeen, daybreak, furnace, nine, benign, homecoming, one, freight car. HYDRA stole everything that made Bucky who he was, everything that made him a person at all. Recovery isn’t easy, but slowly, he’s taking them back.





	No Right Way

**Author's Note:**

> Fic title comes from 'Someone New' by Hozier - check it out!

**Желание // Longing**

“Mommy, when’s Daddy coming home?”

“Daddy’s not coming home, sweetheart.” She had a gentle smile plastered on her face, but it didn’t look right.

“Why not?”

“He’s dead.” At six years old, Bucky knew what death was. Plants die, and pets die, and bugs die when you squash them. But this was different, somehow. “There was an accident at the plant, and your father was very brave. He saved many people. He was a hero.”

From that day on, Bucky didn’t have a father. And it was fine, mostly. Except once in a while he would look out the window and see a neighbour playing catch with his dad in the courtyard or a group of kids trying on their fathers’ too-big hats, or, when visiting a friend’s home, their dad would walk by and playfully rustle their hair. He wished he could have that too.

“What does your dad do?” was the dreaded question, although asked innocently enough. The pairs of eyes would look at him expectantly.

“My dad was a hero,” Bucky replied every time, “but he’s dead now.”

The sympathetic looks always made him uncomfortable.

Steve never asked that question, and three weeks after they met, Bucky found out why.

Steve was pointing at a framed picture of a soldier hanging in his apartment. “That’s my dad. He was a soldier in the 107th Infantry. He died before I was born.” Steve gazed at the photo reverently. “I wish I could’ve met him.”

“My dad died too.” There was no awkward sympathy this time, only understanding.

It was only when Bucky turned eighteen that he found out the truth. He received a letter from someone claiming to be his father, wishing him a good birthday and apologising for leaving him. The man also said he had two half-siblings and asked to see him again.

“It’s true,” his mother admitted when questioned, her eyes averted in shame. “He had a real gambling problem, lost all his money on drinks and cards and ended up owing a lot to some bad people. So, he ran.” It suddenly made sense: why she had taken down all the pictures of him, why she was so evasive on the subject, why there was never a funeral.

“I’m sorry. I should’ve told you. I wanted you to remember him as a good man. Someone to look up to.”

“As a hero. I know, Mom. I know.”

//

Doing is easy. After HYDRA fell: running, hiding, stealing… Of course, those were all part of the Soldier’s skill-set anyway. But even after waking up in a Wakandan hut: cooking, gardening, tending to the goats… Going through the repetitive motions is easy, soothing even.

Feeling is hard. The Soldier didn’t feel; he didn’t think. It was not his purpose.

“You don’t have to be that person anymore,” everyone tells him. But the Soldier was not a person; he was a machine, an empty shell to be moulded and directed however his superiors saw fit.

Feeling is hard. He remembers everything he did in those 70 years. Every mission. Every victim. Feeling means hating himself for all of it, no matter how many times he is told it wasn’t his choice. It means wishing he had died that day in the canyon. _Why?_ Why couldn’t he have just died? Everything would have been better off that way.

Feeling also means that his hut gets lonely sometimes. Shuri drops by once in a while, and the local kids too. But the person he really wants to see hasn’t visited since he was woken. He is told that Steve, Wilson, and the Widow are fugitives, undertaking covert missions around the world to dismantle what remains of HYDRA. Good. But it keeps them busy. So yeah, he gets lonely. And worried; he hopes they are okay. Worry – another feeling. Can you really blame him for not wanting to feel? In some ways, being the Soldier was easier.

But feeling also means looking at the sunset and seeing more than just a series of hues. It means the serenity of the grassland at night, the satisfaction of planting a garden and the pride in watching it grow. Feelings are hard, yes, but maybe they’re worth it.

 

**Ржавый // Rusted**

Bucky was walking home alone, having just parted ways with his baseball friends, when he heard sounds of a scuffle from the nearest alley.

“Come on, punk, just hand it over,” a boy was sneering, followed by an impact and grunts of pain.

Thinking that someone could be getting seriously hurt, Bucky immediately rounded the corner to confront the situation. He found a boy he knew from the year below in school standing over a small skinny kid, who was on the ground. The kid had multiple cuts and bruises on his face, but even then, he had his fists raised, as if ready for a fight.

“You don’t know when to give up, do you?” the bully jeered.

“Hey!” Bucky made his presence known, “back off.”

“Oh yeah? Or what?”

Bucky proceeded to swiftly pull the kid into a headlock, a move he was working on in wrestling. “I said back off.”

When the bully scurried off, Bucky offered a hand to the skinny kid to help him up. The boy looked at the hand, before getting up by himself.

“I didn’t need your help,” he said, “I was handling it.”

“Yeah, I could see that.” Bucky snorted in disbelief. “I’m Bucky.”

“I know you,” the kid replied. “You’re the one everybody at school likes so much. Even the teachers.” Bucky was speechless. “I’m Steve,” he added.

Before either of them could say more, a voice came from the end of the alley. “Hey, tough guy!” It was the bully again, this time with three of his friends.

“Think you can handle it?” Bucky joked.

The two of them ran down alleys and backstreets to escape the bullies, finally losing them when they scrambled over a barbed wire fence.

“Dammit!” Steve cursed as they leant against a brick wall catching their breath. Bucky looked down to see a large, deep gash across Steve’s hand. “That fence was rusty too – I could get tetanus. Mom’s gonna be so mad.”

“Shit, sorry.” Bucky apologised.

“It’s fine – my mom’s a nurse,” Steve said, “she just wants me to be more careful.”

“You’re not doing a very good job of that, are you?” Bucky chuckled. “Alright, let’s go find her then.” When Steve looked sceptical, he explained: “I’m involved in this now – you best believe I’m gonna make sure you’re alright.”

//

They stress him out at first, the goats, always following him around and startling him from his naps. The first time that happened he nearly punched the poor creature across the hut. It’s lucky he doesn’t have his arm anymore.

It was a week after he woke that he met the goatherd, an old man. He was holding a bag of carrots and the goats crowded around him as though he were the messiah.

“Wonderful little guys, aren’t they?” he said.

“Sure.”

The man ignored the lack of enthusiasm and continued. “We used to keep them in a pen with a fence around it, but they always managed to get out somehow.”

“Must not like being caged up.”

The goatherd gave a merry chuckle as he fed another goat. “It must be. I guess they never realised the fence was not there to keep them in, but to keep the wild dogs out. Here, want to try?” He offered handful of carrot chunks.

“Sure. Thanks.” It was the beginning of an unlikely friendship.

Now Bucky sits cross-legged outside his hut, enjoying the quiet of nature as he waits for his hanging clothes to dry, when he hears a soft whining behind him.

“Billy.” The young goat trots over, bleating happily. “I don’t have any carrots.”

The creature takes no notice of the words; he circles Bucky twice before climbing on him and settling in his lap.

He had helped the goatherd deliver this one a few weeks ago. He was even allowed to name him and thought the opportunity to have ‘Billy the Kid’ was too good to pass up.

The ball of fur has dozed off now, exhaling little puffs of air with a steady rhythm.

People are complicated. Goats are simple. They do not ask questions you would rather not answer, and they don’t look at you differently when you do. Goats do not see him as the Soldier, only as a source of carrots and occasionally as a pillow. How lucky they are, to live in a world so simple.

 

 **Семнадцать //** **Seventeen**

Bucky was standing in a back aisle trying to decide whether to spend his last few cents on bread or canned beans when a commotion started at the front of the store.

“Thief!” the elderly shopkeeper yelled as a young man carrying a bundle of food bounded for the door. Bucky immediately sprang into action to chase the shoplifter down.

As he pursued the thief down the busy Brooklyn streets, the shopkeeper shouted behind them: “Hey, officer! Get that man! He’s a thief!”

The shoplifter was fast, but Bucky was faster. He finally caught up to him in an alley and pushed him up against the wall.

“Please!” the man begged, “I just want to feed my family! I- I have two kids and I just lost my job!”

“It’s the Great Depression, pal – everyone’s in the same boat.”

“Please! My kids – they lost their mother last year. They can’t lose me too. Please don’t let them catch me.”

Bucky hesitated. The policeman’s call could be heard from down the street. After a moment, he made up his mind.

“Give me that soup. And the corn,” Bucky instructed hastily, “take the bread to your family.” When the shoplifter looked at him in confusion, he urged: “go!”

Without another moment’s hesitation, the man scrambled around the corner just in time for the cop’s arrival. Bucky faced the officer calmly, arms raised in surrender and stolen items displayed openly in his hands.

“You’re lucky you’re still seventeen,” the policeman said as Bucky replaced the food on the right shelves, closely watched by the shopkeeper who thankfully didn’t recognise him.

When he was finished, the cop clapped a counselling hand to Bucky’s shoulder. “Stay out of trouble, kid” he advised, “you won’t be let off so easy once you’re eighteen.”

“You got it, Officer.”

//

“White Wolf!”

He doesn’t understand why the children call him that, but it is better than ‘Winter Soldier’ or ‘Asset’ or ‘Terrorist’ so he doesn’t complain.

He finds the kids – eight of them – at his door. The girl who had called for him has a mud-encrusted football under her arm.

“What is it?” When did he become the cranky old man who lives next door? Although, he supposes he _is_ technically a hundred years old.

“We want to play football. Be our referee,” the girl says, “please?”

He sighs. “Sure.”

So that’s how he finds himself watching a group of 10-year-olds kick a ball around in the grass, barefoot and using straw baskets as makeshift goalposts.

“Foul!” he calls out as one boy tackles another a bit too vigorously. “Give the ball to the other team.”

“Not fair!” the child complains, “I didn’t do anything wrong.”

“You wanted me to referee, kid. If you don’t like it, find someone else.”

As the afternoon wears on, the kids decide to take a break, and somehow end up strewn across the floor of Bucky’s hut with cups of water and some dried fruit that Shuri had given him, chattering happily.

Occasionally, one of the braver ones asks him a question: “What happened to your arm?” “My mother says you’re a terrorist. What does that mean?” “Is Captain America coming back to visit?” He dodges them all as best he can.

Seemingly too soon, there is a voice at his door. Multiple voices actually. “Winter Soldier!” “Where is my son?” “Themba, are you there?” Outside the window, the sun has set, casting the grassland in a soft orange light. It’s later than he thought.

Bucky lifts the curtain from his doorway to face the parents. When they catch sight of their kids lounging about on the floor, they erupt in a chorus of “Why aren’t you home?”, “What did I tell you?”, and “Themba, why do you never listen to me?”. The kids look at the floor, pouting miserably.

“It’s my fault,” Bucky says. “I kept them. I’m sorry.” He lets the parents admonish him as they fetch their kids and bring them home. He doesn’t miss the fearful looks, the protective stances.

Themba turns back as her mother is leading her away, football tucked neatly under her arm. “Thank you, White Wolf.”

 

 **Рассвет //** **Daybreak**

The harsh noise of the bugle wrenched Bucky from what light sleep he was able to achieve. Without time to clear the fog from his eyes, he sprang up from his cot and got to pulling on his boots.

Out in the courtyard it was still dark, and the winter chill easily penetrated the layers of his uniform, making him shiver. Bucky found the rest of the 107th and joined in their ranks.

“Fuck, it’s cold!” one recruit was muttering.

“We’re all cold, son. You don’t hear us complaining,” Dum Dum snapped back.

Soon the cold was the least of their troubles, as the recruits started down the road for their morning 10-mile run.

As Bucky’s legs ached and the dry icy air burned in his lungs, he was grateful once again that Steve was not accepted for service. Steve was the reason he enlisted in the first place – he was adamant on doing it and Bucky agreed they’d do it together – but life had a funny way of working out.

They finally returned to the courtyard, and the soldiers made a beeline for the food building. Bucky took his share of biscuits and corned beef and joined a few of his new friends sitting at the edge of the courtyard. They ate in companionable silence for a while.

“I reckon it won’t be a few weeks till they ship us out,” Gabe Jones said, “the war’s getting worse in Europe; they’ll need every man they can get.”

“I think you’re probably right,” Dum Dum agreed, chewing a mouthful of food.

“You guys got many goodbyes to say before we ship out?”

“Just a couple,” Bucky replied quietly.

Dawn had arrived now, the sky lighting up in a smooth gradient from orange to blue, but it was still cold enough to see their little clouds of breath dissipating into the morning air.

Gabe spoke: “you know I’ve got all y’all backs, right? So, God willing, we can all come back home when this is done.”

The others all spoke in assent and reaffirmation of the sentiment.

Would Bucky have enlisted if it weren’t for Steve? Probably not. But at least he was in good company.

//

He awakens with a start, scrambling frantically until he regains his bearings. He is in his hut, on the sleeping mat, drenched in sweat. It’s okay – just another nightmare. He still gets them sometimes, but less than before.

Most of the time it’s HYDRA: the torture, the missions, the mind games. Sometimes he wakes up expecting a cryo pod, or a metal bench surrounded by dozens of probing eyes, or that dreaded chair. Sometimes it takes a while to remember who he is, and who is protecting him.

This time it was the war. It’s almost mundane in comparison, but he can still feel the shockwaves, can still taste the smoke.

Outside it is still dark, not yet dawn, but a distant glow signals the imminent sunrise. Bucky wraps a blanket around himself and treads onto the grass. It is damp from overnight rain. He climbs the nearest hill and settles on a largish rock at its summit. The sun is peeping over the horizon now.

“I see my hut, my garden, the trees, and the city. And I see the sun,” Bucky speaks to himself. This is a grounding technique they taught him, to tether himself to the present. It’s still a bit cold this time of day; he pulls the blanket tighter over his shoulders.

“I can feel the wet grass, this rock, my blanket, and this damn cold air.” There’s something beautiful about the dawn, about watching the world wake up. He never noticed it before he came here.

“I hear the birds, and the crickets, and…” he focuses, “the grass rustling.” He watches as down in the valley the goatherd emerges from his hut to tend his flock. The Soldier watched people from high-up places too. For an entirely different reason, of course.

“I can smell manure and petrichor.” Several lights have come on in the farmhouses now, and in the city beyond. Soon the area will be filled with farmers, and children, and merchants going about their daily routines, and the still of the twilight will be as distant as the tundra of Siberia.

“I taste… the morning.”

 

 **Печь //** **Furnace**

Thick black smoke rose from the chimneys of the crematorium. Bucky had no way of knowing which of them, if any, was his mother, but he supposed it hardly mattered now.

Beside him, Becca watched with one hand raised to her heart; her other was clasped tightly with her brother’s.

The smoky tinge in the air almost reminded Bucky of afternoons and evenings spent cooking and baking in his mother’s kitchen. It was her who taught him to cook – it almost felt ironic now.

“Look,” he remembered her saying, “we want to beat the eggs until they’re light and foamy, like this!” She poured the eggs into the pan as six-year-old Bucky watched dutifully. “That’s how you get nice fluffy omelettes!”

Mrs Barnes liked to put on the radio as she cooked, tuned in to a music station. She would whistle along merrily as she fetched a pot or stirred a stew. It has her who taught Bucky to whistle too.

Once he got a bit older, she started getting him to help out: chopping vegetables, kneading dough, stirring pots… But she always took him through all the recipes slowly, methodically, explaining everything so well that he could make them himself even when she wasn’t around.

“Be patient,” she would tell Bucky when he pushed his face close to the oven, waiting eagerly for a pie to finish baking, “the best things in life always take time.”

Thinking back, she taught him more than he ever realised.

It couldn’t have been easy for her: a single mother of two in 1930s Brooklyn with little family and no trained profession. It was something Bucky didn’t appreciate for many years; he remembered getting annoyed and acting up when she told him he’d have to take on more chores and look after his sister. But even then, she never really got angry at him.

“I love you, Mom,” he spoke under his breath, watching the smoke dissipate into the cloudy New York sky.

//

The months of watering, fertilising, and weeding pay off as the garden yields a bounty of fresh fruits and vegetables, and of course they must all be cooked before they go bad. So, he finds himself at his table one afternoon with about a dozen pots, bowls, and dishes laid out in front of him, and three baskets of fresh produce at his feet.

He sets out washing, peeling, and chopping – tasks made much more difficult now that he only has one arm. As he struggles to dice his carrots without a steadying hand, giggling is heard from outside. He looks over to see three pairs of curious eyes peeking over the windowsill.

“What are you doing, White Wolf?” asks Themba.

“Cooking.”

“Let us help you,” she says.

The children eagerly get to work processing the fruits and vegetables, as Bucky warns them to be careful with the knives. He then fetches flour, milk, and sugar to make batter.

Soon the root vegetables and squash are simmering away on the fire while the batter-covered fruit bakes in the oven, filling the hut with a pleasant mixture of sweet and earthy aromas. The children sit around the oven, staring transfixed at the roasting dessert.

“What is it?” Langa asks.

“Strawberry cobbler.”

“What’s that?”

“You’ll see. It’s good. My mom used to make it.” He pauses for a moment. “Let’s fry the beans while those are cooking.”

After the hours of work, they are left to consume a feast of vegetable stew, stir-fried beans, and fresh strawberry cobbler. They sit in a circle on the floor as they eat.

“Themba, there you are!” comes a voice from the window. “What are you doing here?”

“We’re helping the White Wolf cook, Mama. Want some?” Themba holds out a plate of cobbler in invitation.

The woman looks from her daughter, to the food, and finally regards Bucky. She is expressionless for a moment, but then gives him a short nod and a faint smile.

“I would love to join.”

 

 **Девять //** **Nine**

“So, what are we gonna do today?” Becca asked through her mouthful of toast.

“Lots of things, kid. We’re gonna have so much fun,” Bucky replied as enthusiastically as he could muster.

Like most Saturdays, Mrs Barnes was at work, leaving Bucky to entertain his 7-year-old sister for nine hours, something which was easier said than done.

The first hour was spent simply making and eating breakfast, and for the next, Bucky left Becca to listen to her favourite radio programme as he swept the floors of the tiny apartment.

For the third hour, the two of them worked through washing all of the family’s laundry.

“Want to hear a joke?” Becca asked as Bucky handed her a wet shirt to hang up.

“Yeah, what is it?” Bucky replied without looking up from the dress he was starting to scrub.

“What colour is the wind?” She paused for dramatic effect. “Blue. Get it? ‘Cause ‘blew’ and ‘blue’.”

Bucky couldn’t help letting out a chuckle. “Your jokes are always so terrible,” he teased.

“You laughed at it, so who’s the real winner here?” she countered.

“You got me there.”

Once the laundry was done, Bucky got to making them both a simple lunch of boiled potatoes and vegetables. Becca made a face as she reluctantly ate a closely supervised mouthful of peas.

After lunch, Bucky brought his sister down to the courtyard to skip rope with her friends for a while. As he sat on some stairs reading _Oliver Twist_ for his literature class, a group of local boys approached him, asking if he wanted to join in their game of baseball. He declined, saying he had to look after his sister.

When the sixth hour rolled around, Bucky and Becca walked to the local shops and market to do the weekly shopping. It was mostly just Bucky buying and carrying everything, and apologetically turning down every item Becca wanted to buy – money was tight, after all.

By the time they got back, it was 3 pm. Bucky spent the next three hours keeping his sister entertained with card games, dominos, marbles, and books.

Mrs Barnes returned to the apartment after her long day of work to find Becca eagerly explaining a drawing she had made to her brother.

“And that’s the fairy warrior,” she was saying.

“Why does she have four ears?” Bucky laughed.

“That’s a crown, dum-dum!”

//

“You know, when you invited me to the city, this isn’t exactly what I imagined,” he says, the metal of the examination table uncomfortably cold against his skin.

“We’ll go shopping as soon as I’m done with this.” Shuri adjusts something on her computer, eyes never leaving the hologram screen.

Bucky’s eyes wander the room. The pristine laboratory and futuristic tech are a far cry from his hut, and it has him on edge.

After a few minutes, Shuri finally looks up. “All the tests indicate that you are completely okay,” she announces.

“I told you I’m fine.”

“Well, you’re welcome,” she quips.

“Sorry. Thanks for everything.”

“Mm hmm… Everything I did should’ve cost you an arm and a leg – you’re lucky I’m nice and needed someone to carry my shopping. Anyway, I’m just being thorough – we both know the Captain would give me hell if I slacked off on your check-ups.” He smiles a bit at that. She continues in a more serious tone, “also, your shoulder has healed nicely, so we could-”

“No,” he cuts her off. “I don’t want a new arm.”

“My brother-”

“You can tell your brother-”

“You can tell him yourself, pal, he’s upstairs,” she retorts as she starts shutting down the diagnostic system. “Just know that the option is there, okay?”

He doesn’t reply. He’s spent the past few months adjusting to life with one arm, amongst the other things he’s had to adjust to. It’s tough. A new arm wouldn’t be inherently related to fighting. Truth be told, it would be exceptionally useful in many ways: cooking, washing, hell - getting _dressed_. But… the unnatural strength, the unyielding cold metal… “The new fist of HYDRA”.

Shuri finishes the shutdown and takes off her lab coat to reveal a trendy outfit underneath. “You can stop pouting now, dum-dum, we’re going to the market!”

“I’m not-” he starts to say, but she is already halfway out of the lab.

The hub of Wakanda is magnificent, bustling with shoppers and traders alike. They soon get lost in stall after stall of exquisite fabrics, local foods, and curious knickknacks. As promised, Bucky ends up carrying Shuri’s bags once she gets to her fourth.

“I’ve got to say, princess,” he speaks through a mouthful of ugali and stew, “you know how to shop.”

 

 **Добросердечный //** **Benign**

Bullets from somewhere down the street whooshed past Bucky’s ear. He stuck close to the wall. Occasionally, he took a shot at the vague forms of enemy soldiers through the dust and smoke, but he could never tell if he actually hit someone.

“Shit.” He needed to reload his weapon, but the shots were coming at him thick and fast now. He quickly ducked into the first alley he came to.

As he replaced the bullets in his gun, he realised he was not alone. Across the narrow alleyway, a soldier sat slumped against the wall. His uniform was unmistakably German.

Bucky immediately raised his weapon, but the soldier waved a shaky hand at him. “Nein! Bitte, ich flehe dich an!” Bucky did not understand, but he hesitated with his shot.

Taking a closer look at the man, he looked remarkably young; he couldn’t be older than eighteen. His eyes were wide and distraught, his entire body shaking with fear, and the blood soaking through the left shoulder of his uniform indicated he was injured. His rifle lay discarded at his side.

“Bitte, töte mich nicht…” he pleaded.

After a moment of thought, Bucky laid down his own gun, showing the soldier his empty hands before approaching slowly. He made a quick examination of the injury – a fresh bullet wound – then got some simple supplies from his pack to bandage it. All the while, the boy stared at the wall, eyes glassy and unseeing.

“There you go, kid.” Bucky patted the soldier’s other shoulder in reassurance when he was finished. There was no reply. The boy just trembled.

“Ich- ich kann nicht,” he muttered, seemingly to himself, “ich kann nicht da raus gehen - ich will nach Hause gehen.” He finally turned to Bucky, his gaze burning with intensity.

Though the words were a mystery to Bucky, he understood all too well. “I know, buddy, I know. We’re all just trying to make it out of this alive.”

Bucky managed a brief smile, before picking up his gun and returning to the fight.

//

He is watering the plants one day, when he hears a strangled cry from behind the bushes. Upon investigation, he finds a tiny baby bird stranded in the grass, its little wings tucked into its sides.

He looks around the closest trees and shrubs but can find no evidence of a nest. He returns to the bird, which chirps miserably, soft downy feathers in complete disarray.

“I guess you’re coming with me.” He carefully scoops up the nestling and retreats to his hut.

He lays the bird down in a small bowl, figuring it’s the closest he can get to a nest, then places the bowl in a large basket lined with straw. The bird continues its sad squeaking, seemingly oblivious to Bucky’s efforts.

“You hungry?” He looks around the hut for something that looks like appropriate birdfeed. He finds vegetables, boiled eggs, and rice, which he throws together and mashes up until he’s left with a clumpy mixture. It looks rather grim from a human perspective, but the bird seems to like it well enough.

“I’ll get you some worms next time.” It does not acknowledge his words in any way, too busy scarfing down mouthfuls of food.

He names the bird Nibbles.

Nibbles is demanding, calling for food what seems like every five minutes. Over the next few weeks, his feathers grow out and the chirps turn into harsh squawks. He’s a handsome bird, plumage mostly a dark black but with stripes of bright yellow and red.

The bird takes to hopping around: first the basket, then the hut. He learns to fly a little, and perches atop the hut’s only chair, watching as Bucky goes about his daily tasks. He wanders outside sometimes, bouncing around the garden and flapping himself over bushes, but he always comes back.

Eventually, he figures out how to fly for real, and ventures out into the brush to re-join his brethren. They grow up so fast. The hut is strangely quiet without the occasional shriek.

Shuri stops by one day, bringing Bucky a one-handed vegetable slicer she developed. As they stand outside talking, a beautiful tricolour bird swoops in and lands on Bucky’s shoulder. Shuri is astonished.

“This is Nibbles.”

 

 **Возвращение** **на** **родину //** **Homecoming**

When the soldiers gathered around the dying embers at night, the conversation would inevitably turn to home.

“When I get back, I’m getting a beer, and a pizza, and an entire cheesecake, and I’ll sit on my porch and eat it all.”

“When I get back, I’ll spend all day with my kids – whatever they want to do. God, I miss ’em so much.”

“When I get back, I’m finally gonna propose to my girl. I can’t believe I was too scared to do it before.”

After each person spoke, the whole group would sigh and hum in approval. It was a strange kind of bonding: a group of doomed men, dreaming of a future they may very well never get to see.

“When I get back…” Bucky began when it came to him, “shit, I don’t even know. I just want to see it again – New York… I can just imagine coming into port and seeing the Statue of Liberty right there in front of me.” He gestured as though it was already there. “It’ll be nice to see home again.”

“Amen to that,” one man said, taking a swig from his flask.

Bucky never told anyone about the dreams he had when he was finally able to get to sleep, although he suspected he was not the only one.

In his dreams he was back in Brooklyn. He walked down the familiar streets, air heavy with the aromas of pizza and fried chicken. He waved at the fruit vendor as he passed, and the man tipped his hat in return.

He found himself at Coney Island. Standing in front of his favourite popcorn stand was Steve. He smiled when he saw Bucky and they shared a long hug. Steve bought him cotton candy and they shared it as they tried and failed to beat the carnival games.

He found himself at the doorstep of his old apartment. He opened the front door and walked in. “I’m home!”

Becca looked up from the book in her lap. “Took you long enough.”

In a daze, he sat down on the couch. The pleasant sound of music drifted over from the radio, and his mother strolled in from the kitchen. She set a fresh apple pie on the table. “You’re here just in time.”

Bucky felt a pang of hurt in his chest, though he didn’t understand why. “I missed you, Mom.”

But all too soon, he woke up, and was left with nothing but darkness, and cold, and war.

//

He flips through his journal sometimes, or rather his ‘Bucky Barnes Investigation Book’. He compiled it after escaping HYDRA, to make sense of his jumbled memories. It’s filled with pictures – of Steve, of himself (less easy to find), of the Commandos – as well as various roughly scrawled comments and facts. There are some sketches too, of things he remembers but couldn’t find pictures of. They’re not very good – Steve was always the artist, although Bucky did join him for a few painting classes back in the day – but they were helpful.

One of the hardest things about becoming Bucky again was processing that all his friends, everyone he loves, is dead. Except Steve, of course. Where would he be without him? Still fighting for HYDRA, most likely. He also had to accept that going home, the thing he dreamed about every night during the war, is never going to happen. For one, the home he knows doesn’t exist anymore, and being a wanted criminal in most countries certainly isn’t great for international travel.

He finds himself noticing certain mannerisms, certain qualities in people that remind him of those he once knew. Like Shuri’s nonchalant waves at his snarky comments and her unceasing ability to win every argument. Sometimes he forgets it’s not his sister he is speaking to.

He likes Steve’s new team well enough. Especially the Black Widow. She has had experiences not far from his own. If he’s not mistaken, she was one of the trainees in the Red Room. He understands her, and respects her, and trusts her to protect Steve at any cost. He trusts Wilson too. His prickly scepticism reminds him of Dum Dum sometimes, and his cocky humour of Jim, and he is nothing if not fiercely loyal. They might not get along very well, but when it comes down to it, Wilson is someone he wants Steve to have on his side.

It is easy to get lost in the pictures, in the strange nostalgia; it’s almost like grief, mourning for the life he should have had. But then he closes the book and finds a garden in need of tending, goats in need of herding, and clothes in need of washing. Life goes on.

 

 **Один //** **One**

“Drink this,” Bucky instructed, handing Steve a glass of water and holding a wet towel to his forehead.

“Thanks, Buck,” Steve replied weakly as he took a sip. “You don’t have to do this, you know. I can take care of myself.” Even as he said it, his trembling began to intensify.

“But you don’t have to,” Bucky said, replacing the half-empty glass on the nightstand.

“I hate to be a burden.”

“Don’t say that. I’d rather be here than at the bar with Jim and Brady anyway.” Bucky tried for a reassuring smile. It always hurt to see Steve like this.

“When you’re feeling better, we’ll go down to Coney Island,” Bucky said by way of a distraction, “we can go to the beach, go up on the wheel… you can finally ride the Cyclone.”

Steve gave a tired thankful smile, before erupting into a coughing fit. Once it subsided, Bucky was ready with the cup of water.

“What am I doing, Buck?” Steve asked after a few minutes of silence.

“Lying in bed, shivering.”

“No, I mean… what am I gonna do with my life? I don’t have any skills, no one wants to hire a labourer who looks like a cardboard box’ll crush him… It’s been months since I moved out” – _since my mother died_ – “and I feel so _useless_.” He shuddered, turning onto his side and pulling his limbs closer to his chest.

“Come on, Stevie, don’t beat yourself up like that.” Bucky laid a hand on Steve’s cold clammy shoulder; the trembling seemed to lessen just a bit. “Tell you what: on Monday we’ll take your portfolio and head down to some art schools. Someone’s _got_ to have a job opening, alright? We’ll try all of them if we have to.”

“Yeah…” Steve replied quietly. After a moment he added: “you should get to bed, Buck. It’s late.”

“It’s only…” Bucky checked his watch, “1 am. Don’t worry about me, alright? Try to get some sleep.” Steve reluctantly closed his eyes. “I’ll be right here.”

Bucky sat on the edge of the bed long into the night, running a comforting hand up and down Steve’s trembling back, until his muscles relaxed and his breathing slowed and sleep finally found him.

//

He rarely hears from Steve – clandestine operations in remote locations don’t exactly lend themselves to regular phone calls home. When he first woke, T’Challa had handed him a sealed envelope with ‘Barnes’ penned on the front.

“Captain Rogers sent this in his last transmission, six weeks ago. We printed it. I promise no one has read it.”

It took him three days to open the letter. It was short, to-the-point, with no information that could be dangerous if intercepted. ‘Bucky,’ he had written, ‘I hope this finds you when you wake. Wilson, Romanoff, and I have been running covert missions to take down the last of HYDRA. I am well. I’m sorry I can’t be there, but this is something I must do. I trust you understand. I know you are done fighting; you will be protected there. Take care of yourself. Steve.’

He used to reread that letter every day. It is tucked into his journal now, its brief contents long since memorised.

“No news from the Captain,” Shuri says every time they meet. He doesn’t even have to ask. Until one day, she shows up at the hut unexpectedly.

Bucky looks up from the pot of stew he’s stirring. “Two visits in one week? I’m honoured.”

“You should be.” She looks smug. “I bring good news.”

“What, did you finally find shoes to go with your new outfit?”

“Nope, although thanks for reminding me. I’ll have to look for those later.”

“What is it?”

“This came for you.” She pulls out an envelope from her back pocket and hands it to Bucky. A message for _him_? That can only mean one thing.

“Ha! I was so right,” Shuri exclaims. Bucky looks at her questioningly. She explains: “I have a bet with Okoye on how you would react. Dopey smile? Speechlessness? Cradling the letter like the holy grail? Check, check, and… check.”

“I wasn’t-”

“Mm hmm.” She gives a knowing smirk. “Anyways, see you later. I’m actually busy, but I _had_ to see your reaction.”

Once she is gone, he carefully opens the envelope. This letter is even shorter than the last. ‘Bucky,’ it reads, ‘I hear you are doing well. It’s tough right now, but if all goes well, we should be back in a few weeks. I promise we’ll catch up properly then. I’m proud of you. See you soon. Steve.’

 

 **Грузовой** **вагон //** **Freight** **car**

He was falling through icy air, Steve’s outstretched hand above him disappearing quickly.

Being at war for the past four years, dying was always a very real possibility. Hell, when he was being held by HYDRA, strapped to that table, he had been sure it was the end for him then. When by some miracle Steve showed up and saved him, he thought for a second that he might make it after all. But alas, it was never to last.

He hadn’t even had to think before picking up that shield and confronting that HYDRA agent. It was instinctual, automatic. ‘Protect Steve’. It had been written into every fibre of his being since he was eleven. Although those past couple years, that had somewhat been flipped on its head. Suddenly, it had been Steve protecting _him_ , saving _him_. At least this way, Bucky got to be the hero one last time. He almost wanted to laugh.

As he fell, he thought about everything he still wanted to do: return home, see Becca again, get a real job, maybe settle down someday… It hurt to think that he would never get a chance at any of that. Or anything else, for that matter. To be honest, it scared him. But if there was ever anything he was willing to die for, Steve, and this mission, would be it.

He thought of Becca and Steve and the Commandos – his family, the only people in this world he could truly say he loved. They would be fine without him, he assured himself. Even his sister, whom he’d had to look after for so many endless Saturdays. She was an adult now. She didn’t need him anymore.

As the train slipped out of sight and the bottom of the ravine neared, Bucky gave one last fleeting thought to death. Logically, he understood what it meant. Plants die, and animals die, and parents die. But it’s different when it’s you. After all, you only die once. He wondered what it would feel like, that moment when he’d slip between being alive and… not. He wondered if there was indeed something else waiting for him after.

After what felt like both an instant and an eternity, he hit the snow.

//

Why didn’t he die that day in the canyon? Well the truth is, he did. Every little thing that made Bucky Barnes who he was was stolen from him. Every memory, every choice. And for 70 years, James Buchanan Barnes was dead, his body used as a vessel for an unfeeling and unthinking assassin. An obedient killer. The Winter Soldier.

Now he is woken by a soft nudge against his cheek. “G’ morning, Billy.” He makes himself a breakfast from fresh fruits he has grown himself, using a one-handed slicer made specially for him by someone he considers a sister.

He goes down to the local market to buy bread and meat, greeting a friendly goatherd on the way. He pauses on his way back to watch a group of kids play football in the grass. He cheers as a little girl named Themba scores a goal.

He washes his clothes and hangs them on a line, then gets to work watering plants in the garden, watched from a tree (unbeknownst to him) by a beautiful bushshrike he calls Nibbles.

When the sun sets, he climbs a hill to watch it dip below the horizon. He sees the colours, and notices their beauty. And at night, before he goes to sleep, he opens his journal and reads over a three-line letter, although he has already memorised every word. Then he puts his light out and lets the sounds of the night-time grassland carry him off into dreams, hoping that tonight, they will be good ones.

Most people don’t get second chances: they die, and that’s it. Bucky Barnes is lucky. He died in 1945. Then, over 70 years later, he got another shot. Recovery isn’t easy; there’s no right way, no procedure to follow, but in the end, it’s worth it.

 

Bucky steps out from his hut when he sees T’Challa and Okoye approach from the window. Without a word said, he is presented with a box. In it, a vibranium arm.

So much for a peaceful retirement.

“Where’s the fight?”

**Author's Note:**

> Translations for the German parts (sorry if it's wrong, I'm not a native speaker):  
> "Nein! Bitte, ich flehe dich an!” = No! Please, I beg you!  
> “Bitte, töte mich nicht…” = Please don't kill me...  
> “Ich- ich kann nicht. Ich kann nicht da raus gehen - ich will nach Hause gehen." = I- I can't. I can't go back out there - I want to go home.


End file.
